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My Mother Sang Me a Lullaby
-Akshita Taneja, B.A(hons)-Sociology, 
Jesus and Mary College



A warm sunny day,
Like any other.
My head resting on my mother's 
Lap as she tried to put my 5 year old mind to sleep.
I was five.
Thanks to the fact that my parents hadn't put an I phone in my face,
And the bluelight from the big screen hadn't clouded my vision, dreams and realities,
I wasn't perpetually tired.
And I still preferred the chirping of the birds and mother's voice,
Over my spotify playlist.
I didn't have to do lists
Or agendas.
Movies and posters didn't spark conversations because 
I didn't know the meaning of propaganda. 

I felt her hands caress my hair,
As she sung a lullaby.
A lullaby I don't remember very well,
Because I have impending goals and assignments muddled up in my head.
But I know it was something about a little girl,
And the moon, 
And maybe something else in between.
I know for sure it wasn't about the society,
And it's thousand and one schemes.
You see, she was guarding my curiosity and wonder for as long as she could,
Because she knew I wouldn't be allowed to go out at a time where I could see the moon when I grew up.

She, very carefully, in her sweet as honey voice,
Didn't tell me about the f word.
Not the one that's actually abusive
But one that could get me into trouble, feminist.
She didn't tell me I will have to struggle, to be considered equal to my brother.
And be looked down at for even wanting to have that struggle.
And she didn't tell me she had to quit her job before marriage.
Instead she sung about the little girl,
Who had yet not discovered,
The art of keeping your eyes low,
So she wouldn't be humiliated, harrassed or embarrassed.

The lullabies, I feel this community of mothers somewhere,
Invented for us,
Passed from grandmother to mother to sister to daughter,
And not grandfather to father to brother to son,
Because they never cared to learn?
I know my mother sang the same way to my brother,
But I doubt if he will let his son rest his head on his lap,
As he sang
Because of another bad word, the world wouldn't acknowledge or let me speak
It's called toxic masculinity.

The stories of princesses,
I was told,
Didn't really prepare me to think about, living in a castle that I would build;
And not one a prince would gift.
But those were simpler times I believe,
Pink was only a color,
And not the identity of an entire gender.
A lullaby,
Was only a lullaby ,
And not a topic for me to write a poem, on.
My mother,
Was just my mother.
Not another woman on whose dreams, the patriarchy had stepped on.

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